I come from a little Florida sun

Like clockwork every year growing up, the routine of school gave way to the tradition of family vacation, four days on the road roundtrip with two glorious weeks of South Florida sun, food, and togetherness squeezed in between. Every year, my family packed the car, stopped the mail, kissed the kitty, and headed south to Grandma and Grandpa's condo in Pompano Beach, Florida. The excitement was like Christmas or a birthday. Preparing to leave was the same every year for Drew and me: throwing summer clothes in a suitcase, choosing which candy to buy for the trip, and losing sleep the night before out of sheer excitement for the literal road ahead.

I can still remember the Florida feeling, smell the Florida smell, and close my eyes and see Florida, our Florida: the two-bedroom condo with shag carpet, the canal and palm tree-lined streets of the complex where we stayed, the pool where the old man with curled toe nails dealt cards to his peers, the tall buildings, clumps of umbrellas, and parked cars donning sunshields lining the beach.

I've never had a good memory, but experiencing the death of a loved one heightens your sense of recall, as if you have to outrun the inevitable forgetfulness that comes part and parcel with the passage of time. While memory serves, here's the Hardison Florida summer story.

I've always liked car trips because you're trapped with the people in your car. They can't go anywhere, and neither can you. While a two-day car trip would drive some kids crazy, it was half the fun of Florida for me. It was the only time all year that Dad willingly drove his car into a fast food parking lot. Always Wendys, and he let us get Frostys with our meals. I enjoyed the lull of the highway, day dreaming about friends (boys) back home and waiting until someone mentioned the M&Ms and Cokes in the cooler in the back. The sound of M&Ms hitting the bottoms of plastic cups is a Florida sound. We ate dinner at Cracker Barrel--fried chicken tenderloins for Drew and me--and we spent the night at the Holiday Inn in Brunswick, Georgia, where I started holding my breath until we loaded into the car the next day, my phobias of hotel rooms setting in early. On Day 2, the freshness of hitting the road was surpassed by the anticipation of getting there. Another Wendy's trip later, we'd pull into our parking spot in front of the condo, the hurricane-shielded front porch seemingly screaming hello, welcome to your vacation, it's nice to see you again.

The condo smell would never be as strong as the first time we walked in each year. It smelled wonderfully like a mix of carpet, detergent, and sand. We unloaded our bags and put our belongings in the drawers. Two weeks was long enough to move in. Then we'd load back into the car and head to Publix, the only time each year our whole family went grocery shopping together. We bought stuff we never had at home: the thin Pepperidge Farm bread, Fresca, Nestea powder with lemon flavor: vittles for a family of vacationers, happy to be at the home we'd waited for all year.

Vacation had officially begun.

(Florida sun, post 2 -- to  come)

The condo. 1987